


To Be Better

by kuriositet



Series: Free To Love [2]
Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: War of the Damned
Genre: I have a lot of feelings, M/M, this is how i deal with them okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-12
Updated: 2013-04-12
Packaged: 2017-12-08 06:30:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/758168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuriositet/pseuds/kuriositet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castus wants to be a better man and he is trying. He really is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Be Better

**Author's Note:**

> Castus's POV towards the end of episode 9. The Dead and the Dying. Overlaps with Free to Love.  
> Crispus is a fan-named background character, if you hadn't figured that out already.
> 
> Gratitude to Yasmin for cheering me on and reading this over for me. <3

Castus leads Naevia back to her tent, thinking it is the least he can do. Her face is so full of grief it is almost blank, her eyes screaming in pain, as she walks on unsteady legs through the camp. She says nothing as she enters her tent and does not look back at him. Castus wants to say something, to honor her, to honor Crixus, but no words fall upon tongue, so he leaves.

He seeks his own tent and is halfway through the camp when a voice calls for him, and he turns to find a familiar curly head of hair coming towards him. “I would have thought to find Nasir with you,” Crispus says, and Castus tries not to let the sting of rejection get to him.

“You seek him?”

“I come on behalf of Sibyl, seeking only more experienced hands to aid in healing wounds.” Castus nods, feeling foolish. It is a strange thing that this young man, with a smile to rival the sun, is able to turn Castus’s world upside down, suddenly making the object of his jealousy instead become the cause of it.

“Nasir is already where he belongs,” Castus says, and in response to Crispus’s confused face, he adds, “Seeing to Agron’s wounds.”

“He yet lives?”

“He does.” Castus is taken by surprise as Crispus throws his arms around him in a quick embrace, and does not get a chance to return it before he is gone.

“Apologies,” Crispus mutters, and in the dark Castus can just barely make out a faint shade of red in his cheeks.

“None required,” Castus says, and their eyes meet for but a moment before someone calls Crispus’s name and he looks away.

“Apologies,” he says again. “I must go.”

“I shall see you later, at the pyre,” Castus says, but the young man has already been swept up by the crowd. He sighs and turns to keep heading to his tent, wondering if he is a fool to hope for anything—anything at all—like what Nasir has with Agron. He knows that it is probably too late, that he will most likely be dead within a week, perhaps two if they are lucky. There is no time to find love, to find a companion.

He sits in the darkness of his tent, and when he shuts his eyes he finds Crispus’s warm brown eyes smiling back at him. Fuck the Gods. Castus had thought he had found the epitome of beauty—inside and out—when he met Nasir, but Crispus is starting to challenge that title. He thinks about the previous day, when he had watched them train together, Crispus putting up a good fight but still ending up on his back, at the mercy of Nasir’s spear.

What was it that he had said? A student is but reflection of his teacher? Castus cannot help but marvel at the truth in the statement, and how it applies not only to fighting but all aspects of life.

As of this afternoon Castus is Crispus’s teacher as well, though, Castus realizes and almost fears which traits of his the boy might adopt. His cockiness maybe, or his way with words. Neither of those would cause any actual trouble though. However, the mere association with him, Cilician as he stands, may bring equal distrust and dislike to Crispus. Crispus must be aware of this, and that is why he disappeared so quickly, Castus’s reputation precedes him after all. Unless Crispus takes after Nasir in the matter, then it is possible he won’t care about Castus’s past.

He hears people walk by his tent, a lot of them, in the direction of the arena where they were to build the pyre. They must be finished then, he thinks, and gets up to join them, the army, his new brothers and sisters that he is still doubtful trust him. 

He almost does not expect Nasir and Agron to be there considering how bad Agron had looked when he saw him last, limping away, leaning heavily against Nasir. Nasir looks the opposite; he looks like someone has breathed new life into him, standing as straight as the spear in his hand like the proud warrior he is. If Nasir had not told him, Castus would never have guessed Nasir’s past was any different than that of a gladiator’s.

He does not see Crispus in the crowd, but stands at the bottom of the arena, hoping that the young man might spot him there. When Spartacus starts speaking there is still no sign of him, though, and as Naevia lights the pyre, Castus stands alone. He listens as names are being called, names that mostly bear no faces, and silently calls names of his own. His brothers who left him behind, leaving him branded as traitor, yet the only one who still lives. Heracleo… his only real family for many years. A name he cannot speak aloud if he wants to live, a brother he has not been allowed to mourn.

A weight is lifted off of his shoulders as he finally does, and as the crowd starts chanting Crixus’s name, he joins in. Not because he knew the man, but because of what his name now represents, because it allows Castus to finally feel like he is part of the army and not just a barely tolerated ally. His eyes catch Nasir’s face and he notes that Nasir stands silent, eyes focused on the fire burning hot in front of them. He wonders why, but does not let his mind linger on it as he instead loses himself in the moment.

*

It seems hours later when he finally makes it back to his tent, the camp still riled up, yet in a serious manner. There is no celebration, no singing, but as Castus made his way through, he was greeted by excitement for battle and a renewed thirst for Roman blood. 

Castus is just outside his tent when Crispus once more manages to materialize from out of nowhere when Castus least expects it. He carries bread and meat and a shy expression on his face as he asks, “Have you eaten? I would share meal.”

Castus cannot even remember when he had last eaten, but his stomach makes a grumbling noise, telling him it must have been many hours ago. “Gratitude,” he says, and watches as Crispus’s face lights up like the sun despite it being the middle of the night. 

They enter his tent, which really is not much of anything. There is a bed, which is all that matters, he supposes, with some ragged blankets thrown over it. For a moment he feels embarrassed about the lack of nice things, the lack of anything, really, but Crispus pays it no mind, and just sits on the floor with his back leaning against the bed. There is no lamp in the tent, but in the dim light coming in from the fires and the moon outside Castus can see Crispus’s cheeks go dark again.

“Apologies, I did not bring any wine.” Castus chuckles and reaches behind the bed, pulling out a half-full wineskin. It is the one thing he does have and, though there is not much left, he is happy to share. “Gratitude,” Crispus says as he takes it, taking a careful sip before handing it back. Castus takes a seat next to him, half-expecting them to eat in silence, but Crispus starts talking at once. 

“I have never lived free,” he says, and the statement does not surprise Castus at all. He is still so young, and he speaks Latin like any Roman would which means he probably grew up within the Republic. “Not until the night when I slipped from my Dominus’s villa. And still, this almost does not feel like true freedom. It shall be a sweet taste upon tongue when the day comes that Rome shall fall.”

“I fear the day will not come soon enough,” Castus replies, and Crispus smiles, because that appears to be his response to everything.

“As long as we are still here to see it, does it matter when it comes?” Castus does not know what to say. “You have never been a slave,” Crispus points out. “You have never known a life absent choice.”

“What choice do you have now? To fight or to die on the cross?” Castus asks, eliciting a soft laugh from the boy.

“In the grand scheme of things, yes, I must choose to fight to stay alive. But there are other choices to make as well, choices I could never make as a slave.” He does not elaborate on what kind of choices that may be, and Castus does not ask.

“You were born into slavery then?” he asks instead, genuinely interested.

“I was. I do not remember much of my mother because I was still young when she died, but I believe she was of Hispania.”

“What of your father?”

“I cannot be sure, but I have always assumed it was the Roman fuck who sold me not five minutes after my mother’s passing. She served as a house slave in a villa near Neapolis. That is where I was bought and taken to a villa in the countryside. I believe that is where they named me Crispus.” They have both finished eating by now, and Castus’s attention is focused solely on Crispus. The boy’s smile falters for a moment, but returns stronger than before.

“That life is a thing of the past, though,” he says, making clear he does not wish to speak further of it. “I prefer not to dwell there, but to live in the present.”

“A wise decision.” He catches Crispus’s eyes for a moment, but then the young man looks down at his hands, and it takes Castus a moment to figure out that he is untying something from around his wrist.

“I never got to properly show you gratitude for aiding in my training,” Crispus says, before gently taking Castus’s hand and tying an old, worn leather bracelet around his wrist. “It is not much, but a friend at the villa gave this to me for protection the night before I left, a gift from her mother to keep her safe, and I want you to have it.”

“Crispus… I cannot accept this.” Castus is almost surprised by his own refusal to accept the gift. He has never thought much of charms or prayers, but the idea of Crispus parting from the bracelet that may have been keeping him safe all this time is unbearable.

“I do not need it anymore,” Crispus says, shifting where he sits so that he is facing Castus, as Castus does the same. “Yet it will warm heart to know that you have it.”

For the first time in very long, Castus does not have words. He hesitantly looks up to meet Crispus’s eyes, finding them warm and bright as ever, despite his curly hair casting shadow over his face. Castus finds his hand there, cupping Crispus’s cheek, before he has even thought about moving it, and he swears his heart thumps faster in his chest as Crispus leans in to the touch.

Castus thinks about all the concerns he had earlier this night. When the idea that Crispus may not want him, even as a friend, was the biggest issue at hand. Now he looks into his eyes that are starting to droop from sleep deprivation, and his concern is for something else. Earlier he was afraid Crispus would take after his treacherous pirate ways, and now he is afraid he and his treacherous ways will break the boy, stealing whatever innocence is left in him.

Castus has thought himself a changed man, having put his pirate days behind him and with it the greed and selfishness that anyone surrounded by such men needs. Yet, falling back into old habits is easy, Castus thinks, once you let yourself admit what it is that you desire, exhaustion wearing at your barriers. Castus thinks it must show in his eyes because it is Crispus who reaches out, cupping strong, yet gentle hands around Castus’s face before leaning in and brushing their lips together.

It starts out tentative, but Castus slides his hand into Crispus’s soft curls, giving them a slight tug, just enough to elicit a soft little noise from the boy, barely audible. Castus pulls back for a second, opening his eyes though he can’t remember when he closed them, and watches as Crispus’s long brown eyelashes flutter against his cheeks before his eyes open with the slow, heavy movement of someone who is fighting the pull of sleep.

“The hour grows late,” Castus says, regaining some self-control.

“I should seek my bed,” Crispus says with a wide smile. “Unless you would share yours.” He pulls Castus into another searing hot kiss and Castus’s mind goes blank, unable to focus on anything that is not Crispus’s soft skin, full lips or wet mouth.

“Yes, yes,” he says the moment he regains enough control to pull back.

“Gratitude,” Crispus whispers as he leans forward again, but this time he only places a small peck on Castus’s lips. Then he looks at Castus as if asking a silent question, to himself or Castus is not important; it only matters that the answer puts another smile on his face.

Castus stands and offers a hand to pull Crispus to his feet only to have the young man collapse on the bed, apparently more taken by exhaustion than Castus had thought. He pulls the blankets up over Crispus’s shoulders and runs a hand over his curly hair. He thinks he should go and leave him to peaceful slumber, but before he can take as much as a step away from the bed, strong fingers curl around his wrist.

“Why do you stand there?” Castus gives no reply. “It is your bed, is it not?”

“I cannot—” Castus starts, but is interrupted by soft laughter as Crispus turns over to face him.

“You cannot simply lay to rest in bed with another man? What fool am I then, to think the stories I have been told of the great pirate to be exaggerations?” Stories? What stories?

“What stories?” he asks, only to be met with more sleepy laughter.

“Come to bed, and maybe one day I shall tell you.”

*

Castus awakes in the morning with Crispus still next to him, curious brown eyes watching him. Seeing him this closely is different in light of day, yet his warm touch feels the same, as does the soft press of his lips. 

“You are a better man than most give you credit for,” the young man whispers. Castus thinks his heart might skip a beat at the sweet sincerity of the words. Crispus smiles, however this time it is of a different kind. “Yet, we are at war. Perhaps we will live through another fortnight. Perhaps not.”

He pauses and Castus looks at him questioningly. Crispus’s smile widens. “Perhaps now is not the time to be the better man.”


End file.
